Sunday, September 24, 2006
I’ve had two kids cry on me on this week.
The first one was during class tests. She clearly didn’t know the answers and, in turns, sat staring blankly at her paper or scrubbing her teary eyes on her forearm whilst sobbing inaudibly.
I also found out later that her mother had complained to the receptionist that the follow-up homework I had set had had no bearing on the lesson I taught. What bollocks. I did teach it. Everyone else managed to do it. Your kid is just not particularly bright. Sorry.
The second bucket of tears came two days later in response to a ball game I dreamt up. This game has been my saviour of late. The kids love it and it eats up minutes like some kind of minute-eating ballgame
The rules are thus: I recite the alphabet out loud, whilst attempting to chuck and hit the kids with a beachball. If I manage to hit one (the kids are pretty nimble), he/she has to say what letter I have reached and what the next letter is.
However, this game has its pitfalls; namely the kids go hyper - running around like they’re high on a diet of Opal Fruits and undiluted Kia-Ora. And of course this leads to accidents.
When you are 5, everything is at a dangerous height and whilst running round in an impossibly tight turning circle little Yuka smacked her chin off the table. I had just thrown the ball at her, and bravely she decided to answer the question first before, then, bursting into tears.
It’s difficult to describe but it’s actually quite upsetting to see kids crying. It sets something off inside you. It seems that you’re so aware they are to encounter so much unhappiness in life, you’re determined they don’t spend a second longer than they have to being miserable.
For a moment, I came over all paternal